


From Russia With Love

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-08
Updated: 2008-07-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Everybody likes surprises, right?





	From Russia With Love

**Author's Note:**

> It's a little bizarre to dedicate a smutfic to one's mother, but as [](http://subaltern47.livejournal.com/profile)[**subaltern47**](http://subaltern47.livejournal.com/) said, it's a reaffirmation of life in the face of death. So: Mom, thanks for everything, for supporting my reading habit and encouraging my creativity. I love you.
> 
> (Don't worry; she'll also get the dedication for my first real novel, which I began in earnest at the airport on Sunday. When you're stuck in JFK for 4+ hours, you have to do _something_.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Wow, I can't even begin to explain how _not_ mine these characters are.

Sometimes he thought he liked the busy days better than the slow ones; the slow days only made him feel restless and even bored, and he hated to be bored, professionally. He glanced briefly at his appointment book, saw that at least he had something that afternoon to keep him from being tempted to bang his head against the wall just to give him something to distract him from the boredom.

Two o'clock came and went but at quarter past, there was a knock at his door. It must have been his new client, Ms Koripova.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened, and in strode his prospective client. She was pale-skinned, not particularly tall, with straight red hair in a classic bob style, lips tinted a deep ruby. She was wearing large Jackie O-style sunglasses and a black trench coat buttoned up and sashed at the waist. As she strode closer he could not help but notice the bare flash of leg (very short skirt?) and the high-heeled shoes. They had to be four inches in height, at least.

It seemed a bit dramatic for a preliminary appointment with a legal advisor.

When she spoke her voice was laced with a thick Russian accent. "Good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr Darcy."

"My pleasure. Please have a seat."

"Thank you." She took a seat on the other side of the desk from him; as she settled into the seat, he caught an alarming glimpse of what appeared to be black lace between the parted halves of the top of her overcoat.

"What is it exactly that I can do for you, Ms Koripova?" asked Mark, steepling his fingers, hoping to draw attention to his wedding band.

"Please to call me Tatiana," she said, adjusting her sunglasses, even though they were hardly needed on a grey day like today. "I need your help. I am being persecuted."

He wondered why she hadn't gone straight to the police. "Persecuted? By whom?"

"Wait. Must double-check door. Do not wish to be… _compromised_."

She rose from her chair and went to the door, walking in a way that suggested she hoped he was looking at her backside, confirmed when, after flipping the lock, she glanced back over her shoulder.

When she sat down she continued, speaking quietly. "KGB."

Mark blinked. "And what is your home country?"

She furrowed her brows. "Russia, of course."

This was most puzzling. There was still a KGB in Belarus, but the over-arcing Soviet Union's Committee for State Security had been officially disbanded in 1995. "And what makes you think the, um, KGB are after you?" he asked, clearing his throat mid-sentence, making notes on his legal pad.

"I find self followed by men in overcoats," she said in a hushed tone, sounding appropriately distressed, "driving large black car. They watch me wherever I go." Her fingers fiddled with something below his line of vision on her side of the desk.

"Ah." He was beginning to think she was not being persecuted at all; rather, just a bit delusional.

"Hear clicking sound on phone line when making calls," she added. Quickly she rose from her seat and went around to the other side of his desk. As she sat on the edge of it, her coat peeked open again, and this time he could see that the lace was attached to a bra and that it was all she was wearing above the waist. It was also evident that she had worked open the lower two buttons of the coat. She reached for his left hand and took it in hers. "You have such kind face. Am so scared." To his shock, she raised his hand and placed his palm flat against her chest. "Heart beat so fast. You can help me, yes?" she asked, her lips bowing in a pout.

"Ms Koripova," he said curtly, pushing her hand away, stunned.

It was then he spotted it. The bottom of her coat had slipped open even further, and as she shifted her legs, he noticed on her inner thigh a freckle so distinct as to be unmistakable. In a split-second he knew without a doubt that Tatiana Koripova was a complete fraud.

It was his own wife in disguise.

"Mr Darcy," she said, pushing her glasses up by the corner again; he knew now why she had not removed them. Despite the auburn wig and the dark red lipstick, he would have recognised her blue eyes immediately. He cleared his throat again, trying to imagine exactly what else was (or wasn't) beneath her coat. "I apologise," she continued. "Did not mean offence…"

"No offence taken," he said, rising from his chair. "You only took me aback, that's all."

"I am glad. Do not wish you to refuse my case…" she said woefully.

"I am very much interested in taking your case. Stranger in a strange land, jumping at shadows, afraid to leave the house…" He trailed off as he watched her subtly tug loose the knot on her sash.

"Thank you," she said, offering a meek smile.

He reached forward and took her hand again, squeezing her fingers gently. "I know you're scared."

She nodded, her lower lip forming a pout again. He should have recognised the expression immediately.

"It's all right," he said, reaching to touch her chin. "There's no need to be afraid. I'll protect you."

"That's so kind of you," she said, shifting her legs again so that they were completely exposed. He saw a hint of black lace at her hip.

Standing at her knees as he was, he could no longer hold back. He pushed her knees apart then ran his hands up her thighs as he took her mouth with a violence that surprised him, pressing himself against her. His fingers went up to the buttons to her coat, undoing them all so that he could touch her bare stomach, reach for the thin elastic of her pants. He knew the ones by touch alone, and his heart raced even faster.

"Oh, Mr Darcy," she said, still in that thick accent, pushing herself up to sit properly on the edge of the desk, "we should stop. You are married man."

"We should," he said throatily, then kissed her again, careful to keep his hands out of her wig, going for the pants again. She lifted her hips and he was able to slip them off of her. He felt her hands going straight for his belt, then the button and the zipper of his trousers; if he hadn't been absolutely certain it was his wife by then, he would have known by the ease and rapidity of her working his trousers open, the familiarity with his boxers and the way she took him firmly in hand.

He kissed her again, taking a moment to remove the ridiculous sunglasses (against which he kept jamming his nose) before he pulled her hips to the edge of the desk. He then leaned over her, one arm holding her to him across her back, one palm free to press into her breast, to feel the hardened nipple there, before trailing his fingers along to between her breasts, then down to her navel. He continued to kiss her, to caress and draw her lower lip gently between his teeth; his fingers found her arousal below and he worked them into her in time with thrusting his tongue into her mouth. As her quiet whimpers increased, as she panted hot breath into his mouth, he removed his fingers then grasped her hip to drive rapidly forward into her; although it was evident she was anticipating this moment, she could not contain a gasp as he did so. He could feel her draw her legs up to wrap around his, could feel the stiletto heels raking the backs of his legs down to his calves; with every thrust forward he felt a growl building at the back of his throat. He was thankful for the size and sturdiness of his desk, though he was sure to regret the mess of scattered papers, pens and sloshed decaf coffee this was undoubtedly making on his blotter.

Even though he was close to pinnacle himself, he opened his heavy lids as he felt her tightening with climax around him, saw the look of pure ecstasy on her features; to see his Bridget's beautiful face framed by straight, short red hair was weird but strangely exhilarating and very, _very_ arousing. As the very thought passed through his head his body stiffened, his release catching him quite off guard, and he moaned a little louder than he intended to as he came.

She sighed as he came to rest, her warm breath racing across his cheek between the kisses she brushed there. "Mr Darcy," she whispered, still speaking in the ridiculous accent, "that is what I would call outstanding treatment of client needs."

He chuckled low in his throat, his fingers moving across her back beneath her coat. "All part of the service. I don't command this high fee for nothing, you know."

She stopped lavishing attention to his neck to rear back and meet his eyes; the piercing blue of her own in such close proximity to that blazing red hair stopped the very breath in his throat. "You _do_ know it's me, right?" she asked, her voice back to normal (though concerned in tone), her brows furrowed.

He laughed out loud. "No, I make passionate love to every beautiful woman who strolls into my office wearing nothing but her bra and knickers under a coat."

"When did you know it was me?" she interrogated.

"Long before I kissed you. I saw the freckle on your thigh," he said, touching his fingers to the very spot. She sighed again, nestling back into his neck.

"You're forgiven," she said close to his ear.

Delivering one last kiss to her cheek, he parted from her, righting his trousers and helping her off of the edge of the desk. "Tell me something, love," he began. "Why did you go through this charade?"

She chuckled, then grinned impishly. "Well. You kept telling me how bored you've been lately, so I thought I would liven up your dreary day."

"You're always welcome to show up to brighten my dreary days, especially when I'm bored. You hardly need to dress up as someone you're not to do it, though."

She tilted her chin, raising an eyebrow, brushing her hands down his suit jacket lapels. "You can't honestly tell me you didn't find that exciting. I could feel that urgency."

"I was pretty horrified until I realized it was you. But yes, you're right." He smirked. "I do quite like the red hair."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he said; still feeling playful, he added, "Reminds me of my first girlfriend at Cambri—OW!"

At that moment, with a lightning-fast movement, she grabbed him through the front of his trousers and, without mercy, squeezed. To be fair, he knew he rightfully deserved it.

"The next words out of your mouth," said Bridget sweetly, "had better be 'I was only kidding.'"

"You read my mind," he said, dropping his head to kiss her again. Her fingers opened enough to release him but held fast to the trousers even as she put a stimulating pressure on him yet again.

He was so preoccupied he did not hear the key in the door, and too late heard the door open, heard the mortified gasp.

Mark stood up quickly and looked to the door. "Rebecca," he said; he wanted to step back from Bridget, but to his dismay she still had his trouser fabric between her fingers.

"Oh! Forgive me, I didn't mean to, um, interrupt. I heard you say 'Ow' and thought maybe you'd hurt yourself."

"It's all right, it's just—"

He was about to explain it was only his wife in his embrace, but Rebecca was gone, backing out through the door as quickly as she'd entered through it.

After a moment of stunned silence, Bridget released the grasp on his trousers and started to laugh.

"I appreciate your support," he said glumly.

"If I hear rumours of your infidelity," she said, "I'll know immediately they're not true."

"That was beyond embarrassing."

"I agree," she said, stroking his face with her fingertips. "Just be thankful Rebecca wasn't passing by when you—"

"Point taken," said Mark quickly.

"You will explain it was me?" Bridget asked, buttoning and cinching her coat closed again. "Or shall I do so on my way out?"

"You can on the way out lest I be accused of inventing stories to justify cheating on you." He reached for the discarded sunglasses, put them back on her, then bent to quickly kiss her on the lips. "I'll see you later."

" _Da_ ," she said.

Suddenly the door burst open again, and it was Rebecca once more in the doorway, only this time her colour was high and she looked indignant. "I wasn't going to say anything in front of this… _woman_ —" Rebecca veritably spit the word out. "—but Mark, you should be ashamed of yourself! You, carrying on like this when you're married to a lovely, _lovely_ woman—"

He heard an affected gasp come from Bridget's mouth, then, once more in the terrible Russian accent: "You are married man?"

Mark swore Rebecca was about to cry. " _Bridget_ …" he began darkly, looking to his wife, giving her a quick smack to her bottom through the thin trench coat. Turning to Rebecca, he continued, "Rebecca, this _is_ Bridget. She was just having a bit of fun."

Bridget pulled off the sunglasses. "I'm sorry. It is me," she said in her regular speaking voice. "I'd take off the wig but I'd be a terrible fright."

Rebecca stared at Bridget, undoubtedly recognising his wife's eyes, before clearing her throat. "Oh." Her face was rapidly staining bright pink. " _Oh_. God, Mark, I'm so sorry. I should have known that you'd never…" She trailed off.

Mark chuckled. "I'm aware of how it must have looked."

Bridget added, "It's nice to know I have someone looking out for me in the office."

At last, Rebecca smiled shyly. "Well. I'm sorry again for taking it upon myself to unlock your door. In future I'll, uh, know better." With a smirk she retreated once more, saying, "Have a nice afternoon."

With the door closed again, he expected Bridget to leave as she was originally intending to, but instead she engaged the lock once again then turned back to speak to him. "You know what I would like?" she asked, her voice thick with that accent again.

He was almost afraid to ask. "What?" replied Mark.

She pointed towards him. "To see you wearing wig."

For a split second he wondered if she'd gone off her nut and wanted him to put on the red bob, but when he turned behind him so his gaze could follow the direction of her outstretched finger, he saw she was indicating his barrister's wigs. "Oh." He rounded his desk and reached for the large wig.

" _Nyet_ ," she said. "The little one."

He grabbed the little wig, the one gifted to him upon becoming a lawyer as a symbol of his achievement, and held it up to place upon his head, as weird a request as it seemed.

" _Nyet_ ," she said again, striding to him and taking it from his hands. "Not up there." She reached forward for his trousers again.

She was _very_ good at surprising him.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [Wikipedia's Page on the KGB.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/KGB)
> 
> Also, there really is a little wig. From _EOR_ , when [he's got Bridget on the speakerphone and she's talking about his genuinely gorgeous bottom](http://s32.photobucket.com/user/rowan_wintermoon/media/Mark-wigs.jpg.html).


End file.
